


Dragon's Conquest

by agileassassin



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Arguing, Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, College of Winterhold Questline, Dragons, Elder Scrolls Lore, Fantastic Racism, Fantasy, Gen, Magic, Moral Ambiguity, Moral Dilemmas, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Post-War, Prisoner of War, Skyrim Civil War, Skyrim Main Quest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2018-09-11 01:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8948626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agileassassin/pseuds/agileassassin
Summary: The Civil War has ended in favor of the Imperials, thanks in no small part to the Dragonborn. Ulfric Stormcloak kneels before her, ready to meet his kinsmen in Sovengarde, when he is spared unexpectedly. The Dragonborn finds his Thu'um to be of use to her, and Ulfric is now at her service -- as Dragon-bait.





	1. Lucky Time to be Alive

Ulfric knelt on the ground in front of his throne, barely keeping himself up. He was bleeding and burnt and panting hard, glaring up at the dark elf standing proudly before him. One of her Daedric swords outstretched to his neck, the other resting almost impatiently in an offensive position, her mismatched armor set, slightly luminescent from being enchanted, all made her appear to be a goddess of justice, come down from the heavens to punish the fallen Jarl.

“Surrender, Stormcloak,” she commanded, red eyes glowing in the dim light. General Tullius and Legate Rikke stood slightly behind her, ready to defend against any last resistance from the rebel army.

Ulfric spat at the elf’s feet, a mixture of blood and phlegm. “Never. Never to you, never to anyone. You can kill me, but you will never end the Stormcloaks.”

“Kill you?” The elf laughed for a moment, before steeling her scowl. “What would I gain by killing you? One more soul for Alduin to devour? I think not. You, dear Jarl, are coming with me.” The elf sheathed her sword and cast a paralyze spell on Ulfric.

“Are you sure this is the best course of action, Dragonborn?” General Tullius asked. He and Legate Rikke had Galmar Stone-Fist pushed on the ground. Legate Rikke stood on his sword hand and had kicked his sword to the wall.

The elf nodded, pulling a length of rope from her pack and securing Ulfric’s wrists behind him. “We wouldn’t want to give the Sons of Skyrim a martyr, would we? When they see their leader marched across Skyrim in shame, they will lose all morale.” She set a sample of wisp wrappings around Ulfric’s mouth, keeping him from using the Thu’um.

The paralysis spell wore off, and the Dragonborn pulled Ulfric to his feet. He was led out of the palace, his head still held high despite his defeat. The Dragonborn pushed him through the door and forced him back to his knees. Over the harsh blizzard winds, sounds of combat could be heard throughout the city. “Lok, Vah Koor!” The Dragonborn Shouted. The blizzard subsided suddenly, causing a momentary break in the battle. “Hear me Windhelm!” The Dragonborn continued, enhancing her voice with Thu’um so it could be heard by all. “Ulfric Stormcloak has surrendered! Cease your rebellion at once!”

The group of Stormcloak soldiers that had failed to defend the palace entrance from the Dragonborn and her entourage stood in shock at their fallen leader. While those within sight of the Dragonborn and her captive stopped fighting out of disbelief, those that were not aware of the truth in her words continued to fight. The Dragonborn scowled, and momentarily passed the rope that held tight of Ulfric to General Tullius.

The Dragonborn raised both of her hands, and used the last of her magic to cast a Harmony spell across the city. She took a second to catch her breath before grabbing the rope again and yanking Ulfric to his feet. The Dragonborn led him around the now calm city; Ulfric kept his head held high, but refused to look into any of his soldiers eyes as they stared in disbelief at their fallen leader.

The soldiers were rounded up and taken to the Windhelm Barracks, where the few cells housed around ten soldiers to a cell as the leaders of both the Imperials and the Stormcloaks discussed the terms of surrender.

“You will dismantle all Stormcloak camps by the turn of Sun’s Dawn,” General Tullius commanded, “And submit all officers to the Empire for trial.”

“There are no officers in the Stormcloak army,” Galmar Stone-Fist protested. “Everyone is equal. We are all brothers in arms.”

“Yes,” the Dragonborn mused, “everyone is surely equal to the Stormcloaks. How could I forget, considering the taunting and slurs I experienced whenever I stepped foot near a Stormcloak city?” She casually held the rope binding Ulfric in her lap, Ulfric standing irritably beside her as she lounged on a stone bench around the dining table that had been hastily turned into a meeting spot for the political and military leaders in attendance.

Ulfric burned to speak out. To shout something in support of his loyal soldiers that had fought to the very end. The wisp wrappings’ slightly medicinal properties made him feel rejuvenated, but he cursed them, for they kept his mouth sealed shut. Now he was the prisoner of the very regime he despised, the regime he fought against, not just for himself, as the Imperials seemed to be insinuating, but for all of Skyrim! How could they be so blind they could not see that?

Legate Rikke leaned forwards in her seat. “Perhaps if there are no officers, each soldier should be tried for treason against the Empire?”

Galmar scowled. “That...” he sighed, “will be unnecessary. The soldiers, they were just following orders. My orders. I am the only one that deserves punishment.”

“Ah, but what about the man who bears the name of the rebellion?” The Dragonborn said. “Are you saying that you were more influential to the Stormcloaks than Ulfric Stormcloak himself?”

Galmar nodded, meeting eyes with Ulfric. “Jarl Ulfric was merely a figurehead to the movement,” he explained. “I organized each battle, each camp, everything.” Ulfric wanted to protest in defense of his closest friend, his second in command throughout the Civil War, but couldn’t. “I beg you, release all of the soldiers.”

Rikke leaned to Tullius. “Taking each Stormcloak prisoner could be risky. Every rebel in one place? Sounds like a good way to have the Imperial City overrun to me,” she whispered.

Tullius nodded. “The soldiers will be released,” he agreed. “However, should they ever incite rebellion again, each of them will be tried for treason.”

Galmar nodded, staring at the stone table top. He had few bargaining chips, except for his own life, which he had just given up to save thousands of soldiers. “What of Jarl Ulfric?” He asked at last.

“Well,” the Dragonborn said, idling with the rope in her hands, “I was considering keeping him for myself. You Nords allow for this custom, no? Another with the power of the Thu’um will be excellent for Dragon hunting.”

Ulfric scowled, fuming at his captor. When she had first shown up in his court, he had recognized her, with well-worn armor and a strong posture as a proud and capable warrior, and offered her a position in the Stormcloaks. She had been grateful, remembering their escape from Helgen, however soon after she had betrayed him, his trust, and joined the Legion. He blamed only himself, wondering why he had been so foolish as to trust a dark elf, when obviously they were nothing but thieves and liars.

And now he was the war prize of a dark elf, a Cyrodillic dark elf at that, and she planned to use him for Dragon bait, it seemed.

The delegation dragged on, with Galmar doing everything he could to leave at least one Stormcloak in charge, with little success. Brunwulf Free-Winter was sworn in as the new Jarl of Windhelm, and messengers were sent to the remaining Stormcloak camps. The Stormcloak soldiers were released from custody after swearing allegiance to the Empire and paying a small fine for their rebellion. Half a dozen soldiers refused to swear allegiance, and were left to rot in the cells until they came across a change of heart.

Brunwulf granted the Dragonborn the Hjerim Estate, a move that made Ulfric’s stomach turn, but he was satisfied in knowing that the house had been the site of near a dozen murders, and the mess was still inside the house, as far as he knew. Ulfric watched as the Dragonborn pulled out a coinpurse full nearly to bursting and paid for the house and all its furnishings in full. Most would be left in debt or at the very least penniless after such an exchange, but that damn elf had barely lightened her purse. She even gave Brunwulf a few extra handfuls of gold to help repair Windhelm from the battle!

Ulfric would’ve scoffed had he been able, but he settled for rolling his eyes. She was obviously flaunting her wealth. No doubt she had come across it through the Thieves Guild, or worse. The Dragonborn dragged him through the city, out the gates, and across the bridge, barely glancing at him. “Would you rather walk to Winterhold, or would you like me to buy you a horse?” She asked when they reached the stables.

He was unable to respond, and instead enjoyed being able to look down upon her. He was tall for a Nord, tall enough that he could stand eye to eye with any High Elf that dared enter his court. The Dragonborn reached up and ripped off the Wisp Wrappings that had kept him mute for hours. Ulfric wondered if he should test his luck and his Thu’um, and attempt to Shout the girl off the bridge. “I will accept no charity from you,” Ulfric replied, and turned his head to one side.

The Dragonborn smiled, grabbing his cheek and forcing him to look at her. “We’ll have to get you some new armor, too. Can’t have you dying to a Dragon just yet, can we? And a new sword; that iron blade can barely cut butter.” The Dragonborn summoned a weak frost spell to her hand, knowing it would hurt Ulfric without leaving any lasting damage, as Nords effectively had ice for blood. “I am Nariilu Therel. I have too many titles to count, and with any luck, you will survive traveling at my side.”


	2. Chapter 2

Ulfric sat atop his new horse with the utmost disdain for his situation. The Dragonborn had purchased him a horse, and not just any horse, either. A grand chestnut steed, the most expensive and well bred at the Windhelm Stables, a stallion so fine Ulfric had been eyeing it for his own personal use weeks prior. She rode her own horse slightly ahead of him, a light gray mount that Ulfric believed suited the elf rather nicely; the horse had nearly kicked him when he walked past.

He had sat silently for the entire hour they had been riding, cursing both her name and the old Nord battle customs she used to take him for her own. Nariilu seemed almost happy with the current situation, and hummed a rather obnoxious tune just loud enough to announce their presence to any bandits waiting by the road for an ambush.

The Dragonborn certainly made herself an attractive target to any thieves. She wore multiple enchanted necklaces, and carried not one, but two of the impossibly rare Daedric swords that Ulfric had only heard about in fairy tales. Her coinpurse jingled with every trot, and Ulfric was sure that the pack on her back and the two saddlebags across her horse’s back carried more riches.

Suddenly the Dragonborn stopped her horse, and drew her bow. Ulfric’s horse stepped nervously, looking towards the bushes beside the road. Nocking an arrow, the Glass bow shimmered with an enchantment that Ulfric couldn’t place. She released the string, and the arrow shot forwards too fast to track.

An animal screeched in pain, and then the forest was silent, save for the cold wind blowing. Nariilu hopped off her horse and strode into the bush, pulling out a small dagger as she walked. She emerged barely a minute later with a white pelt draped over her shoulder, and slipped an eye into an alchemy pouch hanging from her hip. “Sabre Cat,” she explained, mounting her horse once more, and continuing on the path. “Perhaps we should’ve washed the blood from your clothes before setting out.”

Ulfric scoffed. As if the hours-old blood stained into his clothes had attracted the beast more than her clanking and jingling and humming. “Perhaps,” Ulfric retorted, “if you learned to silence yourself, the beast wouldn’t have found us.” The Dragonborn rolled her eyes.

“So, the fallen Jarl speaks.”

“I have many words for you, elf.”

“Speak then!” Nariilu dared. “The road to Winterhold is long, and silence is boring.” Ulfric fumed, not sure where to begin with his grievances. “Well?”

“You are not worthy of my words,” Ulfric finally said, turning up his nose. “You only bested me by outnumbering me and using your dirty Elven Magic.”

The Dragonborn laughed. “Outnumbering you in skill, perhaps! Please, half the Mercenaries in Skyrim could best you in swordsmanship.” She laid the pelt over her horse’s neck, allowing it to dry.

“I’d like to see them try.”

“Of course you would,” Nariilu snorted, drawing one of her Daedric swords. “Surely, you are the best warrior in all of Skyrim.” Ulfric kept silent, knowing that anything he dared say would be used against him. “I have no doubt that you could best any challenger that has the gall to think themselves worthy of your battle prowess. Your blade would run them through before they could even get a single word out! Obviously that was why I was able to defeat you sword to sword whilst the General and Legate were occupied with your second in command, o great Jarl.

“Oh but wait! I forgot to address my use of ‘dirty Elven Magic!’” The Dragonborn took a second to smirk at Ulfric. “My armor must be what you speak of, since besides a simple paralysis spell after your defeat, I refrained from magic or the Thu’um in our duel! Of course, these shameful enchantments gave me quite the unfair advantage. How could anyone be expected to win against a cheating Dunmer with armor enchantments? You’re right, Jarl, my swordsmanship was certainly influenced by the Magica-enhancing enchantments on my armor. I should’ve worn regular, unmodified clothes as you do, that is the best attire to wear in a war.”

There was a pause, and all was silent, save for the regular trot of the horses. “Are you finally finished?” Ulfric finally asked. If the Dragonborn was always this talkative, Ulfric decided he would rather fall on his own sword than listen to her nasal Cyrodiilic accent at all hours of the day.

“For now,” Nariilu replied, “but you will be getting armor. And not that worthless hide and iron your soldiers are so fond of wearing.”

“I have a set of steel armor back in Windhelm, but seeing as I was gagged until we left, I lacked the chance to tell you.” She would’ve known this if she wasn’t in such a rush, Ulfric thought, but kept it to himself. Honestly, Ulfric couldn’t think of a time where he ever saw Nariilu listen to anyone, even when she was bound and sentenced to death in the Imperial prison wagon. The Imperials nearly had to tie her to the headblock. Miracle she didn’t end up like that coward horse thief, really.

Nariilu laughed. “Steel? Bah, my children can cut through that with their training daggers. You prefer heavy armor, yes?” She waited for a small nod. “Good. I’ll forge you a nice set of ebony as soon as we reach Winterhold.”

Had Ulfric been walking, he would’ve stopped in his tracks. “You, an armorer? Don’t humor me.” He ignored the comment about children. Ulfric could only imagine the hell of meeting her family. They were probably just as headstrong as the Dragonborn.  
“Yes, I learned the trade back in Cyrodiil. It was much cheaper to make my own weapons and trinkets to practice enchanting on,” Nariilu said, eyeing the peaks of the cliffs lining the road. I like to think I’ve improved quite a bit.”

Ulfric whispered a small prayer to the Nine to keep him safe with this overly confident elf.

“Speaking of, I’ll have to enchant it, too. Can’t have unenchanted armor.”

Ulfric rolled his eyes. It was bad enough she’d already captured him using the ancient Nord traditions, which she’d no doubt learned through desecrating a barrow. Bah, if the Dragonborn had paid any attention in the past months, she would’ve learned that Nordic warfare had evolved from ‘capture and humiliate your enemy’ to ‘take no prisoners’. As if Nord culture mattered to an elf. And now she felt the need to to ramble on like some gossiping housewife.

“Have you ever fought a dragon before?” Nariilu mused.

“Not everyone goes around hunting for death as you do,” Ulfric replied.

The Dragonborn smiled. “When one attacks, aim for its stomach. Its scales are weakest there.”

“Dragons can fly,” Ulfric pointed out. “I don’t have a bow.”

Nariilu huffed. “Well, we can’t do anything about that out in the middle of the wilderness, can we? Please, try not to die until we reach Winterhold. Getting eaten by the first dragon you encounter will not be good for whatever reputation you still have.”

“I’ve fought dragons before,” Ulfric protested.

“I don’t count Helgen,” the Dragonborn replied. “Neither one of us did much fighting. Lots of running away, though. No shame in staying alive to fight another day.”

Ulfric scowled. He remembered Helgen very differently, without all the cowardice Nariilu described. He was distracted from his thoughts by a loud screech, echoing off the mountain faces. “By the Nine, what was that?”

“A dragon,” Nariilu said, drawing one of her swords. “There’s a lair somewhere in those mountains that I just can’t find. Every time I travel this road, I get attacked around here.” Ulfric noticed the large bones at the side of the road. The Dragonborn stopped the horses and hopped off, cutting the rope binding Ulfric’s wrists. Ulfric squeezed the spots where the ropes had rubbed him raw. “Let’s hope it’s a weaker one.”

Ulfric dismounted his horse, and Nariilu led both of the horses behind a rock formation, tying them both to an outcropping. The dragon roared again, and Ulfric drew his steel sword. The Dragonborn wordlessly handed him one of her daedric swords. Ulfric sheathed his own sword and gave Nariilu’s a few practice swings.

“You remember how the Greybeards always stressed meditation and peace with Shouting?” The Dragonborn asked, drawing her bow. Ulfric nodded. “Rip the dragon apart with your Voice.” The two flinched against the latest roar; it was so loud snow fell off the sparse vegetation.

A dragon circled overhead once and landed on the peak of a cliff overlooking the road. It’s scales were the color of dried blood, and it stopped to stare down the two with a gaze that sent a shiver through Ulfric’s spine. Beside him, Nariilu sighed. “It’s one of the powerful ones. Stay behind me,” She announced.

“Dovahkiin,” the dragon hissed, leaning off its perch. “ _Hi fen dir_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation: You will die.


	3. Chapter 3

Ulfric was slightly offended with how little the dragon seemed to care aggbout his presence. It was only aiming its attacks at the Dragonborn, it’s fiery breath melting the snow on the road, and just barely missing Nariilu, who spent an awful amount of time dodging.

The dragon took to the sky just as Ulfric managed to climb up to the ledge the dragon was resting on. The force of the dragon’s powerful wings knocked him off balance, and Ulfric fell back. He cussed loudly, angry that his attack had been denied. The Dragonborn shot arrow after arrow at it; the dragon didn’t seem to be affected in the slightest.

Nariilu quickly slung the bow over her back, hands glowing with Destruction magic, and she charged up a spell. She fired off an ice spear, hitting the dragon on the wing. The dragon stuttered mid-air and switched to a hover, Shouting at the Dragonborn. She stumbled back; the Unrelenting Force Shout had caught her off guard. She had been expecting another Fire Breath Shout.

The dragon landed next to her, and raised its clawed wings to cut Nariilu in half. “ _Feim, Zii Gron_!” She Shouted, just before the dragon’s attack connected. The claws passed through the Dragonborn as she became translucent. The Dragonborn scurried out from under the dragon, her form returning as she readied another spell.

Ulfric saw his chance, and sprinted off the low cliff, landing on the dragon and plunging the sword into it’s back. The daedric weapon slid through a chink in the scales and was buried near to the hilt. Nariilu’s second ice spear hit the dragon in the throat, and the beast screeched in pain, flying off again.

As soon as Ulfric realized what was happening, he dropped low to the dragon’s back and held tight to the sword hilt. The cold air whipped past his face as the dragon circled, roaring fire down towards the Dragonborn.

The Dragonborn never was the best shot with a bow and arrow, not that she would ever admit it. Nariilu of course could hit a target as large as a dragon four times out of five, but she had learned to aim in Skyrim’s crypts, against stationary Draugr. The only moving targets the Dragonborn could reliably hit, even those as large as a small house, were those running straight for her. She cursed Ulfric’s name as she nocked arrow after arrow, sure that if she used a spell Stormcloak would be killed from being in such close proximity to the dragon. Nariilu wondered if she had a better chance of killing him with a stray arrow than with a powerful spell.

This was definitely divine payback for showing off earlier with the sabre cat. One small detect life spell just to find the thing sleeping peacefully near the road, and Nariilu had innocent blood on her hands, especially after she skinned the damned thing. And Stormcloak hadn’t even been all that impressed! What a waste, she thought. Perhaps if she managed to kill this dragon he’d warm up to her.

Nariilu became even more impatient with each missed shot. The dragon seemed to taunt her, and although she could not understand what it was saying to her, she decoded the message behind it’s decreased attacks perfectly. ‘This is the mighty Dovahkiin? I’ve never been less impressed.”

If only Stormcloak would just think before he acts! Jumping on a dragon’s back, no sane person would ever be so reckless. Nariilu thought back to the stories of Skyrim’s berserkers; monstrous warriors whose battlerage rivaled that of the orcs. Certainly, even walking near the Companion’s Hall in Whiterun and listening to the sounds within confirmed those tales.

The dragon seemed to be closing in for another attack, it seemed. Nariilu scowled; she hadn’t caught her breath since her last Shout. If the dragon tried to gut her again– Nariilu shoved the thought from her mind and finally hit the dragon that was hovering in front of her.

She had no time to celebrate her success. Nariilu dived out of the way to avoid the dragon’s deadly bite as it dived down and landed on the road hard. She took refuge behind a rock next to the panicking horses as the dragon attempted to roast her alive again. Peeking over the top once the flames had ceased, she saw Ulfric standing tall on the dragon, stabbing it relentlessly.

“Get off it, fool!” She yelled, throwing her bow aside as she jumped in position to ready another spell.

Ulfric glanced up, and froze. Nariilu was glowing with pure Magic channeled around her body. Blue light glinted off the dragon’s scales as the Dragonborn radiated brighter and brighter as she charged her spell. At the last second, Ulfric remembered to throw himself from the dragon just as the Dragonborn cast her spell. He fell hard into a half-melted snowbank, feeling a cold blast on his back.

Ulfric protected his head and neck with his hands and pressed his body further into the snow. Sharp points of pain relentlessly bombarded his body and the howling wind blocked any sounds from reaching his ears. This level of magic–Ulfric hadn’t seen anything like it in decades.

Just as suddenly as it had started, the spell’s effects seemed to fade. Ulfric cautiously stood up, not hearing any wind, or dragon roars, or much of anything. The Dragonborn had collapsed to her hands and knees in front of the limp dragon. She was breathing in uneven pants, and kept her gaze square on the dragon and sword clutched tight, seemingly in case the dragon was simply faking death.  
The dragon burst into an array of colors and dissolved in front of Ulfric’s eyes. The colors collected and streamed into the Dragonborn; Ulfric assumed that was what it looked like when she ‘ate’ a soul. The Dragonborn tensed up as the soul came close, then relaxed once the dragon was nothing more than a pile of bones and the sword Ulfric managed to stick into its back had clattered to the ground.

“Get a potion,” the Dragonborn ordered through clenched teeth. “In the saddle bag.”

Ulfric walked with little urgency. “My injuries hardly require a potion,” he answered. It was half a lie. The dragon’s scales had scratched his torso and legs through his clothes, and whatever spell she cast at the end of the battle would likely leave him sore for days. A potion would hasten the recovery time, if not outright fix his minor injuries.

The Dragonborn rolled onto her back and pressed her hands to her abdomen. “It’s not for you.” Blood flowed freely from a rip in her cuirass that left the bottom half hanging loosely from the chest piece. An undershirt was quickly soaked red. “Bring me a health potion or a magicka potion; I don’t care.”


	4. Chapter 4

Ulfric hurried his pace and spent, in his opinion, too long calming down the horses. He rummaged through the saddle bags and pulling out a few of the more promising looking potions. Of course none of them were labeled; Ulfric frowned as he clutched the well worn bottles, some of them had long thin cracks running up and down the glass.

He hesitated before turning back to the Dragonborn, who was cursing under her breath and clutching her stomach to keep from expanding a small pool of blood beneath her. Ulfric wondered if saving her life was worth it; he was in servitude to her, and if the Dragonborn died, he could easily dispose of the body without anyone ever knowing. Dragons were dangerous, everyone with half a mind in Skyrim, hell, probably everyone across Tamriel by now, knew that much. And someone who dares to seek them out would surely run out on luck eventually. With her death, Ulfric would be free.

Free to do what? Ulfric had lost a war, and the way General Tullius glared at him during the surrender made him worry about fates worse than death. The Empire was practically owned by the Thalmor, and despite years since his escape, Ulfric still had nightmares about the things those elves did to get him to talk. If he was lucky, they’d give him a quick death on the executioner’s block. If he wasn’t– Ulfric shuddered to think about it.

Skyrim was too small a province to successfully disappear into the wilderness. Ulfric supposed he could join a bandit troop or try and escape to another province. Both sounded equally repulsive. Ulfric scowled. As much as he hated it and her, the Dragonborn was his best bet. He clenched his fists around the bottles and bit his tongue as he made his way to the Dragonborn.

He helped her sit up and held out the potions to her. She briefly eyed the bottles, and then grabbed one that was so covered in residue it was nearly opaque, ripping the cork off and chugging it in seconds. The Dragonborn tossed the bottle aside and grabbed another, downing it the same as the first. 

She shuddered and pushed Ulfric away, lying back on the road. Nariilu squeezed the opening in her stomach together as the potion sped up her healing process and scar tissue formed between the skin, leaving a thick pink line. Her hands lit up yellow as she activated what Ulfric recognized as a weak healing spell, and some of the scar tissue faded to blend in with her dark grey skin.

“Thanks,” Nariilu muttered, lying still on the ground, half because of the paralysis effect one of the potions carried, and half because she couldn’t believe she let herself almost die. Nariilu had been too busy concentrating on her Blizzard spell, something she had only successfully cast twice before, and never in a combat situation, to notice the dragon’s clawed wing making a pass for her. Even better, that one spell used up all her magicka, and so she had to rely on Stormcloak to save her life.

No doubt she could’ve taken that dragon by herself. Stormcloak’s dragon riding stunt had cost ample opportunity to take down the dragon with more practiced spells. Who in their right mind would ever try and ride a dragon? No wonder he’d attempted to fight the Empire; Stormcloak completely lacked common sense. “We need to keep moving,” Nariilu said once she felt the paralysis begin to lessen.

Ulfric considered offering her a hand while watching her struggle to push herself up. He decided against it; no reason to get friendly with her just because they were traveling together. The Dragonborn made it to her feet and stumbled to the horses, gently patting their necks before bringing them around. She jumped onto her horse and managed to sit up without falling off, a feat Ulfric would’ve thought impossible a few seconds prior. Ulfric mounted his horse, which he noticed was still tied to the Dragonborn’s.

The next hour was deficient of talk, except quiet grumbling from Nariilu as she dug through her saddlebags. Ulfric was impressed both with how she managed to turn herself around backwards mid trot, and how much junk she had managed to shove in the bags. The Dragonborn inspected a rusted plate she pulled out, and promptly threw it into the bushes off the road. Ulfric watched as she threw out other items in a similar manner.

“Strange how many things you just seem to end up with,” the Dragonborn finally spoke, holding a sprouting potato in her hand. “I believe I got this from a man in the Reach, after bringing him a Dwarven dagger.”

“Interesting,” Ulfric replied, not the least bit interested.

“Of course, no telling why he was so desperate for a Dwarven dagger. Do you want this?” She held out the potato to Ulfric, who rolled his eyes and shook his head. Nariilu chucked the potato off the cliffs they were rounding, trying in vain to reach the ocean. She went back to reviewing the contents of her bags. “You can’t take three steps in the Reach without coming across something Dwarven. Or Forsworn.”  
Their progress on the road had slowed considerably. Deep snow covered the road, and more was gently falling. Nariilu pulled out a worn-looking cloak and pulled it about herself. Her chest plate had been enchanted against the cold, but with half of it on the ground miles back, the enchantment had gone null. She looked around for any landmarks, but found few save for the cliffs they were traversing.

Stormcloak new exactly where they were, she was sure of it. She could practically feel his contemptuousness radiating in waves from his person. It was justified, of course, given that Nariilu was his captor, but it was still unwelcome. All of her previous traveling companions had enjoyed banter on the road, even the ones that seemed to hate her very being, like Stormcloak did. She was going to die of boredom if they didn’t make it to Winterhold soon.

Perhaps J’zargo would accompany them on future travels. He could reverse the depressing effects of Stormcloak’s mood a thousand times. Wouldn’t hurt to have such a powerful mage at their side, even if he was inexperienced and prone to collateral damage. Nariilu scoffed at the mental image of Stormcloak having his beard singed off by the Khajiit mage.

“Do you know any songs?” Nariilu asked, doing her best not to sound desperate for something to do. With her packs cleared fully out save for necessities, there wasn’t much more to keep her busy.

“I’m not singing,” Ulfric stated flatly.

“Why not? Aren’t Bard tales the cornerstone of Nordic culture?” The Dragonborn idly fiddled with the fraying edges of her cloak.

“Do I look like a Bard to you?”

“Well, the Bard’s College in Solitude does try to recruit everyone withing shouting distance...“

Ulfric tried to focus on anything but the Dragonborn as she rambled on about how she accidentally joined the Bard’s College trying to stop a Necromancer. He was certain the tale was exaggerated beyond belief. Ulfric could not get to wherever they were going soon enough. Sure, the Dragonborn had said Winterhold and they were close enough to the city, but he wouldn’t be surprised if they suddenly turned around and headed for Black Marsh on a whim.

Anything to stop her incessant lecturing, really. Ulfric gauged they had less than an hour until they passed the first buildings into Winterhold. Well, the only buildings. Ulfric kept urging Korir to rebuild the city, to strengthen its garrison, but he was always too busy condemning the mages up at the College for anything that dared go wrong in the hold, which was usually quite a lot. Lot of good the mages were for the city during the war. Korir arrived in Windhelm with his arm half cut off and nothing but the clothes on his back, and the first thing he said was to denounce the mages.

No telling what had happened to the old man. Ulfric hadn’t seen him at negotiations, or in what little he got to see of Windhelm after the fighting had ended. It felt like a lifetime ago the Stormcloaks lost the war, even though it had been less than a day.

“Finally!” The Dragonborn exclaimed. She pointed off near the horizon to small buildings barely distinguishable from boulders in the moderate snow and early twilight. The buildings were dwarfed next to the massive stone castle of Winterhold College. Its magical beacons reached high into the clouds, looking just as fragile as the broken stone bridge connecting the city to the College.

The pair turned the corner on the last cliff and the road began to descend to sea level, spreading out towards Winterhold.


	5. Chapter 5

The Winterhold guards and a handful of Imperial Legionnaires stopped to stare at the pair. Ulfric held his head high, staring just above the tops of heads. Two of the Legionnaires snickered to themselves; the city gossip for months would be based around these few moments. Small villages tend to cling to the most unusual happenings until something else went on. Ulfric Stormcloak, the proudest of the Jarls being led in on horseback by the Dragonborn would not quickly leave the citizens’ minds or mouths.

The Dragonborn dismounted her horse and handed the reins to a man leaning on the rails of The Frozen Hearth. Snow had drifted, covering most of the porch save for the area he stood. “I see you brought company,” he mentioned, taking the reins. Nariilu waved a hand, motioning for Ulfric to dismount as well.

“Just watch the horses until I return from the College,” Nariilu responded, slipping a few coins into Dagur’s waiting palm. She grabbed the saddle bags and slung them over her back, hunching slightly with the weight. “Any interesting news?”

“I heard the Imperials won the war.” Dagur nodded his head in acknowledgment of the fallen Jarl. Dagur had never been fond of the Empire, and would have actively supported the rebellion had he believed them to have any chance against the sheer numbers and might of the Imperial Army. He hoped to convey at least his support in his small gesture.

Ulfric nodded back, lifting his chin higher. The College was certainly not a place he ever wanted to set foot in, but his alternatives were few in the tiny town, and the Imperial soldiers present likely lacked hospitality towards the man who bore their enemies’ name. Staying at the inn would not be the most discreet of options, leaving him open to attack or harassment from soldiers or citizens.

“An astute observation, Dagur. Wisdom certainly comes with age,” Nariilu smirked, shifting under the saddle bags. “Come on, then, Stormcloak.” She strode off towards the stone ramp leading to the College bridge. Ulfric sent one last glance to Dagur and followed the Dragonborn.

Nariilu used one hand to keep herself from sliding down the snow-slick ramp, ascending in an awkward crawl. She knew she looked much less than dignified, but few could appear stately in her position. Ulfric, in contrast, was well practiced in traversing the smooth worn stones of Windhelm, especially unencumbered from the luggage the Dragonborn carried, and climbed the ramp with little to do, his easy gait a stark contrast to the Dragonborn’s clumsy plod.

A high elf woman waited for them at the top of the ramp. She greeted Nariilu with a smile and let her pass without a word. “Stop,” She ordered, holding a hand out to Ulfric’s chest. “This place is a safe haven for mages throughout Skyrim. As far as I’ve heard, the Stormcloaks aren’t too fond of magic.” Nariilu paused and looked back.

“It’s not the magic that concerns me,” Ulfric replied. Mages had a tendency to get themselves into situations that couldn’t easily be escaped, and more often than not caused harm through their carelessness. Magic was immensely powerful and useful, in the right hands. Ulfric remembered seeing most magic being cast by the wrong hands.

The elf crossed her arms and looked him up and down. “Perhaps,” she mused. “What brings you to the College?”

“I am traveling with the Dragonborn, and the Dragonborn traveled to the College,” Ulfric said. No need for her to know the full truth about his situation. The few who knew, the better, although he suspected most of Tamriel would be privy to his capture by next Tirdas.

The Dragonborn sighed. “Let him in, Faralda. I’m keeping close watch on him; no harm will come to the College or the students.” She lowered the saddle bags to the ground. “We won’t be staying long.”

Faralda narrowed her eyes. “I still have to assess his magical ability. A small test, customary, of course,” Faralda said, a small smile curling at her lips. Nariilu frowned. She was fully expecting to have to slide back down the ramp and rent Ulfric a room at The Frozen Hearth. Divines only knew what kind of trouble Ulfric would find himself in with the Legionnaires. Boring posts led to extreme mischief. “A Flame Atronach is a simple and vital Conjuration spell for those with potential.”

Ulfric was certain she was choosing spells for her own amusement. No novice mage he had ever heard of new conjuration spells! Then again, Ulfric never made it a priority to acquaint himself with mages, much less Conjurers. “I’m not familiar with that spell.”

“Hmm, quite a predicament.” Faralda dramatically tapped her chin. “I could teach it to you; I am rather eager to see the great Ulfric Stormcloak summon an atronach.”

“By the Nine, Faralda, stop your mocking! Stormcloak, just Shout at the damn seal,” Nariilu said. Faralda opened her mouth to protest. “Don’t you start; you let me in just fine with the Thu’um.”

“Oh, let me have a bit of fun,” Faralda replied. “Standing out here all day in the snow is a rather mundane life.” She waved her hand dismissively at Ulfric. “Go ahead and Shout. Entertain me, however briefly.”

Ulfric took a step towards the seal. He hadn’t Shouted since the beginning of the Civil War, against Torygg, despite the Dragonborn’s urging during the dragon fight. Of course, accidentally riding a dragon had taken precedence, and any and all Shouts he knew had slipped his mind. A deep breath, a reminder of the meaning of the words, a quick prayer to Talos, the release– “Fus!” Ulfric shouted at the seal, catching Faralda’s feet in the blast halfway on purpose. She stumbled to catch her footing as the seal glowed blue.

“Yes, that will do,” Faralda said, smoothing her robes down as the seal deluminated. “Nariilu, I trust you will keep him out of trouble, and out of Ancano’s sight?”

“Of course,” the Dragonborn replied, picking up the saddle bags again. She planned to either hide him in her dorm the whole time she was there, or not lose sight of him for a second. Nariilu was not entirely certain how Ancano would respond to seeing Ulfric Stormcloak in the flesh, but she could made an educated guess or two. The pair would be at each other’s throats in seconds.

Ulfric watched as the Dragonborn made careful steps across the half-collapsed bridge, and followed a few paces behind with sure footing. “How do you feel about hiding in a wardrobe for a few hours?” Nariilu asked once they had past the narrowest part of the bridge. She had wanted to keep the Thalmor’s presence in the College a secret from Stormcloak for as long as possible, but he was smart enough to figure things out from the limited information she and Faralda had provided him with. At best, Stormcloak would keep quiet and stay hidden for their visit; at worst, he would be killed, and Nariilu wasn’t sure how many times she could convince someone to spare his life in one day.

Ulfric would rather burn the entire College down, but seeing as the entire structure was made out of stone, he would have to settle. “I would prefer not to,” he said.

“Hmm, thought so,” the Dragonborn hummed. “Just keep your head down and stay close to me. Ancano usually follows Archmage Aren around at all hours of the day; he shouldn’t be anywhere near the Hall of Attainment.” Really, she would rather have Ancano attack Stormcloak or vice versa, just so she would have an excuse to kill him.

The main courtyard was empty, much to Nariilu’s relief. She led Ulfric into the Hall of Attainment, gesturing him to be silent, and gently closing the heavy doors to keep anyone from noticing their presence. She padded into her dorm room, thankful for the muffle enchantment on her boots, and gingerly set down her saddlebags. The Dragonborn opened the furthest wardrobe and removed a few sets of robes, placing them on the bed. Ulfric followed her in, not nearly as silently, and sized up the wardrobe.

“No,” Ulfric said under his breath, shaking his head. Wardrobes were not made for anyone, save for children playing hide and seek, to stay in for an extended period of time. Ulfric, being much larger than the average child, could not see how to comfortably remain in the wardrobe, especially with the doors closed. He couldn’t see any benefit at all to being in the wardrobe to begin with; if Ancano, who Ulfric had guessed to either be a Thalmor or overzealous Imperial mage, wanted to pick a fight, he would rather simply get it over with.

“Come, now, it’s very simple.” Nariilu stepped into the wardrobe, spun around once, and then stepped back out. “See?” Ulfric crossed his arms over his chest. “Fine, then. Die, for all I care. If Ancano finds out you’re here, he won’t be as merciful as I was.” She picked the robes back up and returned them to the wardrobe, slamming it shut. The Dragonborn slung a satchel over her shoulder and stomped out of the Hall before Ulfric could respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's probably growing increasingly obvious that I write each chapter in one go at two am and then post without any editing or proofreading, but now maybe I'll have time to actually plot things again since school's out for the summer.
> 
> Also special shout out to those of you that reviewed and I just keep forgetting to take the time and reply tbh. Yall give me l i f e


	6. Chapter 6

Nariilu refused to turn back and grab one of the robes or her old set of leather armor she had in her room, no matter how cold her exposed stomach was. A dramatic exit required one to leave with finality, at least for a time. She pulled her cloak tighter around her and headed towards the Arcanaeum. It would be a relief to finally rid herself of the books Urag had requested. It was enough trouble getting them; Nariilu hoped Urag would ignore a few stray bloodstains.

She took the stairs two at a time as she thought of ways to win Stormcloak’s trust, most of them involving some sort of situation where she saved his life. Nariilu then remembered that he had seemingly no sense of self preservation, and was arguably the most reckless man she had ever met. She hoped his callousness was a result of the day’s earlier events, seeing as how he had lost a war and been taken prisoner, and that he would eventually warm up.

Casting a small flame spell, Nariilu hoped she would warm up soon, too.

*

Ulfric watched the Dragonborn leave and then waited nearly a full minute before going through her belongings, a feat which he thought commendable. As famous as the Dragonborn was becoming around Skyrim, he had only spoken with her briefly on two occasions before that morning. Once, in Helgen, when he and the other Stormcloaks were making their escape. Ulfric knew she had a death wish from the moment they had to physically drag her inside the fort to stop her from hurling spells and foul language at the beast.

He carefully slid out each drawer on the smaller wardrobes, noting the contents. Quills, ink, parchment, dried flowers, and a few soul gems. The only thing interesting Ulfric found was an entire drawer filled with dozens of iron daggers. Some glowed with various enchantments he couldn’t place, and others looked to be much sharper than the rest. Ulfric slipped a few of the more deadly looking ones into his cloak, deciding that mentioning the drawer would be more trouble than it was worth.

Ulfric moved to the tall wardrobes, first opening the one that the Dragonborn suggested he hid in. Sifting through the robes bundled at the bottom, he found a few small pouches with various ingredients, mostly long dead crumbling bees. Moving to the second wardrobe, Ulfric found pieces of battle-worn armor, all looking like it had met a violent end. An iron chest plate had a large gash going from shoulder to hip; a leather helmet was burned and half missing; an elven gauntlet was coated so much dried blood almost none of the original metal could be seen.

None of it was in any usable condition, and Ulfric wondered why the Dragonborn bothered to keep it instead of throwing it out or salvaging the material. He sat on the bed, pulling over the two saddlebags, noticing that they were quite a bit heavier than he anticipated. Opening the lighter one, he found the potions from earlier. The Dragonborn had placed the empty vials back in the bag, no doubt for later use. Ulfric made a mental note to never drink a potion she offered him; mixing the effects of different potions, even from reused vials, was known to cause paralysis or even outright poisoning.

Reaching further in the bag, he found a layer of broken glass covering loose sheets of parchment. Careful not to grab a shard of glass, Ulfric pulled out the stack of parchment. It was stained various colors; a potion vial had broken in the bag at some point. He leafed through the sheets, which Ulfric quickly realized were notes and letters the Dragonborn had received in her travels, as well as a well worn map.

Ulfric glanced over the letters. A vast majority of them were various complaints about the Thu’um or requests to rough someone up, but one caught his eye. A waste of ink, probably from a child, Ulfric mused, looking over a handprint stamped on a page. He pulled the parchment from the stack, meaning to check the back for anything interesting when two short words caught his eye at the bottom of the page. ‘We know.’

He frowned. The vagueness of the message left his mind wandering. A threat, blackmail, or even a joke amongst friends? It had certainly been in the bag for some time, judging by the wrinkles and residue on the parchment. Ulfric rolled it up and put it in one of his cloak pockets for later investigation. Perhaps something in the other bag would lead to an answer, he thought.

Ulfric pulled the bag into his lap, unlatching the top flap. “Looking for something?” A rough voice came from behind him at the door. Ulfric jumped up, throwing the bag to the ground and drew his sword.

*

Urag had not ignored the bloodstains, instead he threatened Nariilu with expulsion and demanded payment for the damage. However, past the initial anger, Urag had been grateful for the books, seen in a thinly concealed smile as he turned to put two of them in a locked bookcase. He handed her Night of Tears with a request to take it to Tolfdir. Nariilu was almost out the door when she was called back to receive a stack of textbooks “as a reward”, though the sheer weight of the thick books made her think otherwise.

She left the textbooks at the top of the stairs, swearing to remember to get them later and knowing that she would likely break that promise. She found Tolfdir staring intently at the Eye of Magnus, which was bathing the Hall of the Elements in a cold blue light. “I see you’ve managed to get that thing out of Saarthal,” Nariilu said.

“The Eye is quite interesting,” Tolfdir replied, not taking his gaze off the Eye. “These markings, you see, they aren’t Elven, or Daedric, or even Ayleid! I’ve never seen anything like it.”

The Dragonborn held out Night of Tears to him. “Urag said you might be interested in this.” She gave him the book. “I’m not sure, but it seems to imply that Saarthal was attacked because the Elves learned about the Eye’s presence.”

Tolfdir took a few minutes to skim the contents, and begun to nod. “This is a highly plausible theory, given how the Eye is radiating magical energy. Of course, this would also mean that the Merethic–“

“Yes, yes, we’re all astonished by your research.” Nariilu turned and scowled as Ancano approached, his hands clasped behind him and his constant bored expression showing something more akin to frustration. “The Apprentice is coming with me.”

“I’m sure you can see we’re in the middle serious research!” Tolfdir protested. “We’re very near a breakthrough.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Ancano replied, casting a look at the Eye. “However, this simply cannot wait.”

“The last time I heard that phrase, a dragon nearly leveled Kynesgrove,” the Dragonborn said, “so, please, understand if I’m underwhelmed by your news.”

“If you must know, there is a Psijic Monk waiting for you in the Archmage’s office,” Ancano said, tapping his foot rather impatiently.

Nariilu bit her cheek. Of course they would be back, she thought. She couldn’t seem to take ten steps without getting caught up in an event of cosmic importance. “Fine.” The Dragonborn pushed past Ancano, making sure to make it to the Archmage’s door well before he did. Slipping through the door, she caught sight of a hooded figure listening to Archmage Aren ramble about Divines knew what.

The Monk looked up at her. “Ah, good. I am Quaranir, of the Psijic Order.” The Dragonborn noted that he seemed fully opaque, unlike the Monk she had met in Saarthal. “You must listen to what I am about to say, for we have very little time.”

Nariilu opened her mouth to respond, and quickly shut it again. Ancient orders tended to have important information, but she couldn’t figure out why they all seemed to seek her out to do their jobs for them. Well, the Greybeards and the Blades certainly had their reasons.

“The Eye of Magnus is dangerous,” Quaranir continued. “The longer it remains in the College, the more of a risk there is. If you do not discover a way to banish it, or destroy it, you may want to leave this side of Tamriel.”

The Dragonborn coughed. “What? Why can’t you just do it? Or get Archmage Aren to do it!” She gestured violently to the Archmage, and noticed that he had seemed to be frozen.  
Quaranir paused just long enough for the Dragonborn to quiet down. “The future is clouded to us. We cannot tell you what to do, but we do know that whatever must be done must be done by you, as you are bound by many strings of fate.” No shit, Nariilu thought. “You must seek out the Augur of Dunlain and decide on your next action.” Quaranir waved his hand and the Archmage finished his sentence.

“–such an honor. Oh, here she is now!” Archmage Aren flashed the Dragonborn an encouraging smile. 

“Yes, of course. I must be going now.” Quaranir turned to leave. His stride was smooth enough to make him appear to float across the floor.

Ancano entered the room with an adequate amount of speed and force to nearly walk into the Monk. “I’m certain you’ll tell us of the reason for your interruption?” He said, unfazed by his near collision. 

Quaranir easily slipped around him, only barely pausing at the door to reply. “It does not concern you.” The door shut behind him, leaving Ancano spluttering as he threw open the door to follow the Monk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throwback to when I said I'd update regularly over the summer. Sorry guys, Fallout New Vegas was like two bucks on the steam sale. I've already put in like 60 hours and I have zero shame. Anyways, sorry if this is crap because once again im writing at like three am but this time I haven't even played Skyrim in months so OOC probably :)))))


	7. Chapter 7

J’zargo was unconcerned with the Daedric sword the new student had leveled at his neck. To be at the College of Winterhold and still rely on such primitive weapons? Only Nords as brutish as this man would be so bold as to threaten J’zargo, the greatest Khajiit mage in generations. “Is this a challenge?” he asked, running through a list of spells he hadn’t had the opportunity to test on a live opponent yet.

“What do you want?” J’zargo nearly rolled his eyes at the man’s question. Such a boring thing to ask! New students were generally the worst about being interesting.

“I would like for you to put down your sword,” J’zargo replied, “although there are other ways to make you do this.” Nariilu certainly wouldn't mind if he gave the man a strong deterrent from any future thievery, J'zargo thought. He couldn't believe he had missed her, though it appeared the Dragonborn was in a rush. In his travels with her, she almost always unloaded her packs first.

"Where did you come from?" Ulfric certainly hadn't heard the door or any footsteps to announce the Khajiit. He was losing his touch. In just as much time as Ulfric took to draw his sword and turn around, a skilled combatant could kill him ten or more ways.

J'zargo actually rolled his eyes at the man's question. "These are the questions that this one wastes time asking? Please, ask something worth my time."

“Do you know who I am?”

J’zargo laughed. “Why should J’zargo care who you are? A thief, perhaps, with how you rummage through things that do not belong to you.” The man lowered his sword, still keeping it in a defensive position. “But what would a man who wears clothes as fine as yours have to steal? A thief should aim to blend in with their surroundings, not draw attention to himself as you do. I assume you are a new student, a nobleman looking to finally do something with his boring life, and has come to appreciate the arcane. Do not worry, you will never be better than me, so do not bother trying.” There was the very off chance that this man was a companion of Nariilu, but J'zargo firmly remembered her swearing to never put anyone in harm's way again, or to come back within the month. 

Ulfric stood still for a moment before sheathing his sword. “Yes, I’m a...new student here. I thought this was my bed.” He had considered his options and while going toe to toe with such an arrogant mage would certainly be satisfying, it wouldn’t be the least painful option. Besides, he was supposed to be hiding from the Thalmor at the College, and with Elsweyr being a firm member of the Aldmeri Dominion, Ulfric decided not to take any chances.

“You should not go poking where you do not belong,” J’zargo said. “A shame it would be to see you expelled or killed before you complete your first lessons.” He turned and walked to his dorm. At least Onmund would shut up about being the only Nord at the College. J’zargo wondered if he could convince the new student to test out a few scrolls. He’d probably fixed the explosion problem, but until he was sure, there was no reason for him to risk his own tail, and Nariilu had grown wary of his scrolls.

J’zargo noticed out of the corner of his eye that the student was still standing stiffly in Nariilu’s dorm. She never took to kindly to anyone disturbing her things, as Enthir had discovered on her last visit to the College a few weeks ago. It was unlikely that she would visit anytime soon, with that silly war going on, but keeping everything in its place kept her from possibly accusing himself.

Of course, if the new student survived until her next visit, she may agree to try his scrolls. But if he could convince the man to use the scrolls, Nariilu’s things would stay in order, and everyone would leave unscathed, except maybe whoever finally did test the scrolls. J’zargo tapped his left foot three times, an old tic for making difficult choices. “You.” J’zargo snatched a handful of scrolls off his desk. “These are for you.”

Ulfric stared at J’zargo’s outstretched hand. He recognized the arcane nature of the scrolls and warily reached out to take them. Ulfric winced as the enchanted parchment touched his hand; the surface was unnaturally warm and gently pulsed with arcane power, almost as if it were alive. "I'm grateful for your gift," Ulfric replied. Scrolls always worried him the most out of all magic. Anyone, even a child, could make them work without training, and he had seen enough warriors hurt themselves or worse after finding a few on a fallen Thalmor.

"Test these. Tell J'zargo what happens," J'zargo said, pointing a finger at the man and smirking, "and J'zargo won't mention this to the Dragonborn. Surely you have heard of her. She kills dragons." He was almost disappointed with how little the man reacted. It likely had something to do with how unenthusiastic most Nords were for anything that couldn't be run through with a sword. Though, given their current positions, J'zargo figured he should be very interesting to the man, seeing as how his hand still twitched on his sword hilt.

Ulfric nodded slowly, waiting for J'zargo to leave. He watched as the Khajiit returned to his desk and slipped a stack of parchment into a bag, along with a quill and ink. J'zargo seemed to have forgotten his presence as he slung the bag over his shoulder, making towards the heavy doors of the Hall. He paused, one hand pressed against the door, and looked back.

"The presence of a novice always makes the lessons more interesting," J'zargo muttered, barely loud enough for Ulfric to hear. He pushed through the door without another glance.

Ulfric watched the heavy door close with a loud bang that reverberated quite well in the round stone room. Seconds later, he watched it reopen and a recently familiar furry head poke around the door.

"Lectures are mandatory, unless this one wishes to be expelled on the first day."

"Yes, of course," Ulfric replied, standing still. It wasn't as if he had any reason to attend; he had every reason not to attend. "I'll be following shortly; I need to move my things to the right bed." He reached for the saddlebag on the bed and fiddled with it until the door closed again. Perhaps the Dragonborn was right about the wardrobe, but Ulfric wasn't about to admit that. He sat back down on the bed and resumed his investigation of the Dragonborn's saddlebags.

***

Ancano simply could not believe that a Monk of the Psijic Order had refused to talk to him, Eye of the Aldmeri Dominion, one of the highest ranking Thalmor in Skyrim--no, in Tamriel! The sheer gall of anyone to ignore him like that would be met with swift and appropriate punishment, and Ancano planned on administering that with a Firebolt to that pompous Monk's gut.

Of course the Hall of the Elements would be empty, save for that wondrous Eye and that stupid excuse for a mage and the College's talentless apprentices. He raised his chin high as he passed through the Hall and into the blistering cold outside. There would certainly be a letter to Elenwen about how he had been slighted by the high and mighty Psijic Order, an affront not just to himself, but to the entire Aldmeri Dominion.

He stomped through the thin layer of snow on the ground--really, what Auri-El forsaken place snowed in First Seed?--and used a Telekinesis spell to blast open the doors of the Hall of Attainment. That was another slight against him, he was sure of it, to put him up with the obnoxious apprentices. Ancano absolutely loathed the College of Winterhold, and he could not believe that the Divines had spared it from turning into nothing more than a bad memory in the Sea of Ghosts along with the rest of the town.

*** 

Ulfric had immersed himself in a very interesting letter that described a bar fight in Whiterun that ended up in an affair between the combatants. Most of the letters the Dragonborn had crumpled in her saddlebags were comprised of similar gossip; a Thane had been plotting to poison a Jarl, a court wizard was actually a vampire, a new potion could make anyone do as you say for an hour or so. Mindless gossip that did little but pass the time.

He was pulled back into reality when the door opened, letting in a sharp gust of cold. Ulfric snapped into alert mode; it was doubtful that the students were finished with a lecture after such a short time. He stood and moved closer to the wardrobe, fully ready to swallow his pride and hide from whatever came through the door, and equally as ready to run it through with a sword.

A disgustingly familiar black robe coasted through the door, worn by a tall elf who looked like someone had pissed in his mead. Thalmor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long but goodness me I did it. Anyways get hype for the next chapter that'll come out when I finally get down to it lol


	8. Chapter 8

Ancano simply could not believe that some insolent whelp had the audacity to grab him, Eye of the Aldmeri Dominion, one of the highest ranking Thalmor in Skyrim--no, in Tamriel! And to put a sword to his neck!? He could already feel the sparks crackle across his fingertips. "I suggest you choose your next action wisely, worm," he spat.

* * *

Ulfric wished he could say he was shocked when the Thalmor strutted in, but he had seen far too many of the robed lowlifes since the Great War, and he was proud to say that he had walked away from every shallow grave he left them in. Ulfric watched the elf walk past with barely a glance.

 It was pure instinct that led Ulfric to grab the elf and put his blade to his throat. Ulfric gave himself pause when he felt the sword's resistance on skin. His blood was rushing in his ears, deafening his more rational thoughts, all the ones that identified the man as anything but a threat.

 "I suggest you choose your next action wisely, worm." The Thalmor spoke up. Ulfric heard his words punctuated by the pop of static; the elf was ready to fight back. Ulfric had always made it a point to never kill in cold blood, especially not without a fair fight. But the lightning dancing across the mage's hands seemed to imply that he was wholly unconcerned about his fate, that he could easily survive having a sword of all things pressed to his neck. Besides, the wisest course of action he could figure was to remove the immediate threat of a dangerous and arrogant Thalmor mage.

 Ulfric pressed the sword further into the Thalmor's neck, pulling the harsh serrations of the Daedric weapon to catch on the delicate skin.

 Ancano rolled his eyes; as if it was the first time an idiot had tried to kill him. His attacker seemed to be less adept than most, as Ancano had time to not only speak, but to cast a spell. Lightning Cloak was far more than effective against assailants who managed to get into melee range--Ancano cursed himself for being so distracted as to let himself get in such a situation. Ancano had also found over his many uses of said spell that Lightning Cloak at such a short range had a slight paralyzing effect.

 He was able to push the attacker off and cast Thunderbolt, another spell that had delicious short range effects, into his attacker's chest. "Did you really think you could kill me?" Ancano sneered, turning to face the fool that had decided to make Ancano's day a little more interesting.

 Ancano's eyes widened and his smirk grew as he watched Ulfric Stormcloak sink to the ground. The sketches of him in his Dossier were astoundingly accurate, he noted. Oh, this was grand. Arresting the Ulfric Stormcloak would get him out of this frozen excuse for a mage's college; perhaps even to the Imperial City embassy or all the way to Alinor. "Ah, Stormcloak!" Ancano said with a twinkle in his eye. "How goes the war? Last I heard the Imperials were practically on Windhelm's gates." He paused to step closer to Ulfric, watching the sparks of his Lightning Cloak jump to Ulfric's prone form. "You didn't flee, did you?"

 Ulfric twitched on the ground, barely able to keep himself on his knees. Every breath came as a shudder, and he was hyperaware of each arc of static that dug deep into his flesh like daggers. Still, he kept tight grip on his sword, swiping at the Thalmor's legs, which the mage easily stepped back from.

 "Oh, come, now," Ancano taunted, "surely your precious Talos will save you." Ancano decided to accentuate his words with another Thunderbolt. Ulfric glared up at Ancano, something that he found decidedly unthreatening, given their respective positions. Ulfric opened his mouth to respond, no doubt to defend his worthless deity. Ancano could've laughed at his patheticness. This was the man who led the biggest rebellion in Imperial history? A general and tactician so great a threat he had one of the largest Dossiers in the Aldmeri Dominion?

 "Fus, Ro Dah!" Ulfric Shouted, sending Ancano flying back into the wall, his head hitting with a resounding crack.

* * *

"--And he said I must find the Augur of Dunlain." Nariilu finished recounting her brief conversation with Quaranir to the Archmage. She really didn't need this, being as close to defeating Alduin as she was. This was another day that he would be devouring souls, getting that much more difficult for her to kill. She would much rather be devouring souls herself, as well; she had a few Words of Power she didn't understand yet, and there were reports of a dragon near Riften.  
Archmage Aren tapped his fingers on his forearm. "Hmm. The Augur of Dunlain? I don't see any reason for you to go seek him out. It's much too dangerous."

 "Sir, with all due respect, everything I do is much too dangerous," Nariilu replied. She couldn't believe that the Archmage was denying this based on the danger, of all things. Perhaps, she thought, he was hiding something. "Just who is the Augur?"

 "A former student of the College who had a habit of sticking his nose where he shouldn't have. He nearly killed himself; though I suspect that would be a better fate," Archmage Aren said, frowning slightly. "He is a warning to keep your research mundane, and your aspirations achievable."

 Nariilu sighed. Archmage Aren never had been one for easy, or useful, answers. "I understand, Archmage." She turned left his quarters, starting down the stairs. Tolfdir, perhaps, had a large mouth, and would be more than happy to spill any secret the Archmage didn't want her to know, if she could tear him away from the Eye or a lecture for long enough.

 The building suddenly shook, and Nariilu widened her stance to keep from falling over. She was gripped with fear that the College was finally going down with Winterhold, but she heard an echoing voice Shouting in a language she barely understood. "Stormcloak," She muttered, regaining her pace and leaping down the stairs.

 A single word of Unrelenting Force wasn't much; it could take the leaves off a tree or make an opponent search for their footing, but only up to a few feet away. A full powered, practiced one could send everything and everyone that wasn't bolted down flying, cause avalanches, and make even dragons stumble from the next town over.

 This had been a full Shout.

* * *

Ancano had hit his head hard against the stone wall. He groaned in pain and annoyance; magic was a mental achievement, and being concussed would do nothing to help him. His vision blurred, and he was aware that he had lost concentration on his Lightning Cloak. He cast it again and stumbled to his feet, his hands glowing with magicka that could be used for any number of spells he knew.

 Ulfric pulled himself up, relaxing his muscles that were tense from the lightning. He walked towards the Thalmor who was holding his head in his hands and doing his best to stay upright. Ulfric sped up when the elf's body began to crackle a faint purple; a much less powerful spell than he had cast not a minute earlier. Ulfric pushed the sword through the Thalmor's abdomen, the sharp point slipping through his robes and skin with little resistance.

 He gasped, then the glow around his body ceased and Ancano fell limp on Ulfric's sword. Removing the sword was much more difficult; the gut hooks performed their job exceedingly well, and caught on just about everything. Ulfric gave up on removing the sword halfway through and sat down; he could still feel the echoes of the lightning bouncing through him.

 Ulfric wondered what to do with the body. He certainly couldn't move it, not in his state when he couldn't even pull out the sword. Not to mention the growing pool of blood that would stain the stone floor if it wasn't cleaned up soon, and the clutter of things that had been caught in his Shout. He sighed and moved the Thalmor's robes to mop up some of the blood, it was certainly a start. Ulfric felt the tingling in his body start to lessen; after a few minutes rest, he would be able to deal with his mess.

* * *

Nariilu would've likely been pulled into Tolfdir's lecture, had she not been in a full sprint. She pushed open the heavy doors and only slipped once in the icy courtyard before coming to the Hall of Attainment. "Fus, Ro," she Shouted, opening the doors enough for her to not have to pause and open them herself.

 Her eyes immediately focused on the body at the far side of the room with a sword--her sword\--sticking out of its abdomen. She was just aware of Ulfric sitting to one side, grasping at his own abdomen. "What," the Dragonborn asked, stepping closer to investigate the scene, "in Oblivion," Ancano's eyes blankly stared at the ceiling, his hair matting with blood that didn't seem to come from the pool beneath him, "did you do?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my italics arent working right but maybe ill go back and fix that later. not now tho im lazy lol


	9. Chapter 9

The Dragonborn felt her blood run cold as she looked down at Ancano's body. She wasn't upset that he was dead, if anything she was disappointed she didn't get to see him die, or contribute to his death herself. However, Nariilu had seen enough Thalmor bureaucracy in action to know that this would not be without consequences at the very least for the College. More agents would descend as soon as word reached the Embassy, if not more extreme measures.

 

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" She asked, kneeling beside the corpse to search for any signs of life--if she had only given a damn about Conjuration, perhaps she could've revived him? "The only reason the College is able to stay out of the Thalmor's interest is because Ancano only cared to search for secrets where there aren't any; what do you think will happen if they send a competent Agent? Or _worse_!"

 

Ulfric stood up, wincing in pain. "He tried to kill me," he said plainly. He reached for the sword to try and pull it out again.

 

"Don't," the Dragonborn said, grabbing his wrist. "It'll make it even harder to clean if you open the wound." She pulled his wrist between them; Ulfric was too tired and apathetic to resist. "How long ago were _we_ in a battle to the death? A day? We're both alive, and neither one of us caused a major diplomatic incident!" She paused. "Alright, that may have been a bad example. But I can't believe I leave you alone for not even an _hour_ , and you go and kill a high ranking Thalmor!"

 

"Do you support the Thalmor?" Ulfric snarled, pulling his wrist free. "I shouldn't be surprised; the Empire might as well be part of the Dominion--"

 

"Unlike you, I prefer to think before I act, and I suggest that you don't imply I hate the Thalmor any less than you," the Dragonborn snapped. "Now, I strongly recommend that you start to listen to me, lest your impulses get us _both_ killed. If you had stayed hidden, I wouldn’t have to clean up your mess. Somehow." She looked at the body and clenched her fists. Where could she possibly dispose of a where the closest earth was frozen under a foot of snow?

 

The Dragonborn knelt down and rummaged through Ancano's pockets. She pulled out a few sheets of folded parchment and laid them on a bookshelf, along with a small pouch and a well worn spell book. "What are you going to do? Throw him in the sea?" Ulfric asked, glaring at her. "Should I get a book of elvish funeral rites to read?"

 

"The sea, that's brilliant!" Nariilu mumbled, moving to his feet. "Stormcloak, grab his shoulders and help me carry this bastard out of here. If we're quick we can get rid of the blood and put everything back before lecture is over, and I can figure out how to avoid political retaliation later." Stormcloak didn't move. "You killed him, and I'll be damned if I have to throw your corpse into the sea, too," Nariilu said. "So, grab his shoulders."

 

Ulfric moved beside Ancano and slid his hands under his back around the shoulders, feeling his muscles crackle with lightning at the strain of lifting the elf. "What about the sword?" he asked, taking a small step after the Dragonborn lifted up the feet.

 

"I'll grab it right before we push him over the wall," the Dragonborn responded. "No use making another mess." Blood dripped along their path to the door, and pooled where she had to put his feet down to open the door. Droplets continued to mark the pair's path to the edge of the courtyard, right before the pathway back down to Winterhold began.

 

They placed his corpse down where it was halfway off the broken walkway. "Would you like to say a few words?" The Dragonborn muttered, pulling the sword out of Ancano's abdomen. Ulfric stepped forwards and kicked the body off the edge, watching as it fell into the churning sea and rocks below. "I couldn't've said it better myself," the Dragonborn said, leaning over as far as she dared to see the body crash against a rock.

 

She pulled back when the body disappeared under the churning waves, looking at the trail of blood stained the snow a spotty red. The Dragonborn walked back to the Hall of Attainment, shuffling her feet along the path to cover the blood. "Come on, then," she called back to Ulfric. "We don't have long." Ulfric followed her back, kicking snow over spots she had missed. She disappeared inside, Ulfric following a few paces behind.

 

Nariilu grabbed a set of robes off her bed and placed it over the puddle of blood, wiping up what she could. "Here," she said, standing up and grabbing a clean robe, "I'm going to bring in some snow to help clean up your mess. Keep scrubbing." She dropped the robe on the floor and stepped outside.

 

"So," Nariilu startled at the voice, casting an Ice Spike at the man who seemingly appeared from nowhere as she exited the Hall, "You threw the body into the Sea of Ghosts?"  Archmage Aren didn't flinch; the enchantment on his robes flickered as it absorbed the Dragonborn's spell.

 

Nariilu relaxed her stance. She cursed herself for believing the Archmage to be foolish enough for her to slip the murder of his 'advisor' past him. She cursed herself again for being so heedless as to even attempt to hide it from him. "I'm sorry," she replied. "I didn't expect--"

 

" _I_ didn't expect Ulfric Stormcloak to be at the College," Archmage Aren cut her off, "and I certainly didn't expect there to be a death within these walls." His nearly blank expression made him seem almost bored; the only life on his face was a certain spark in his eyes that Nariilu couldn't quite place.

 

"Sir, I can explain--"

 

Archmage Aren held up a hand, silencing her. "I don't particularly care for an explanation. Truthfully, I feel you've done the College a favor, at least until the Thalmor find out about this. I hope you at least took Ancano's notes from his robes before you…disposed of him." Nariilu nodded. "Good. We'll need those if we're to keep this from the Dominion."

 

Nariilu faltered. The Archmage didn't appear to be angry, unless he held the kind of calm fury that grew and grew before it burst. She thought she'd at least get enough time to figure out just who the Augur of Dunlain was before the Archmage expelled her. He hadn't mentioned any punishment, he'd even expressed _gratitude_ , of all things, but a purposeful death, a _murder_ , on College grounds was bound to leave her walking down the bridge in disgrace, even if she wasn't the one who killed. The Archmage moved past her and through the door.

 

Ulfric ran the robes over the floor in vain; the blood had begun seeping into the porous stone. Cleaning had never been his strong suit; maids in the Palace were paid to clean for him, and military camps and prisons tended not to place an emphasis on the skill. He was sure the robes would form holes before the blood ever lifted. Ulfric doubted the snow the Dragonborn had gone to collect would make any difference, he thought upon hearing the door reopen.

 

Archmage Aren took a second to take in the sight of Stormcloak on his hands and knees cleaning Thalmor blood with College robes. He could only imagine the series of events that had led to this moment. He murmured a spell, fading the blood from the stones and righting objects thrown by Stormcloak's Shout.

 

Ulfric looked up when he heard a decidedly male voice, ready to attack again despite his aching body. The Dragonborn stood gently closing the door with her back behind a shorter Dark Elf dressed in robes that could only be described as iridescent. He had seen many enchantments before, rarely on more than one weapon or armor piece on a person, but never had any glowed so brightly and with such color that it seemed to shift the very candlelight in the Hall to twisting blues, reds, purples, greens. It was a garment that demanded attention, though the man's posture and expression did little to support it. Nonetheless, Ulfric rose to his feet to greet the Archmage of the College of Winterhold.

 

"I believe this meeting is much delayed, Jarl," Archmage Aren said, holding out his hand in greeting. The title nearly made Ulfric wince. "I have little patience for politics, but I will make an exception when the politics end in…well, this. I'm Archmage Savos Aren; a pleasure."

 

Ulfric took his outstretched hand, noticing that the blood had been removed from his hands and cloak as well. "Likewise." He noticed that the Dragonborn was hanging by the door, standing with an uncertain posture Ulfric had never seen her with, though granted he had spent less than a full day with her. "I apologize for the mess; I'm afraid your College had a pest problem."

 

"Ah, yes, thank you for taking care of that. Of course, you understand that with all infestations, measures must be taken to prevent the pests' return," Archmage Aren said. "How do you plan to do this?"

 

"Archmage, with all due respect, what, exactly, are you requesting?" The Dragonborn asked. "You can certainly say what ever you're saying without the symbolism." She respected the Archmage of course, but his methods were…abstract. She much preferred the rigid structure of the Imperial Army to the lax hand waving of Archmage Aren.

 

"I'm asking the Jarl to finish cleaning up his mess. Ancano was the best Thalmor spy we could possibly have at the College! Stubborn, self-absorbed, stupid, all the greatest traits of the Thalmor so purely represented in one man. I don't imagine Elenwen will take kindly to this, if she ever does find out." The Archmage strolled over to Ancano's desk, inspecting the small stack of notes. "Oh, dear," he unfolded one of the parchment pages, "it appears Elenwen won't receive this report on the ice wraiths in the Midden. How tragic!" He tossed the paper on the desk. "If the Dominion comes calling on Ancano's unexpected leave of absence, well, we shouldn't dwell on the dreary for long."

 

Ulfric clenched his fist at his side. To stop the Thalmor from coming back to the College, they'd have to be kicked out of Skyrim altogether, and to do that…would be more work than he could do deposed, disgraced, and in servitude to the Dragonborn. "I currently lack the resources to end the Dominion presence in Skyrim." That had been right under sending the Empire packing on his list of goals; Galmar had considered the two acts one in the same, especially after his spies reported an ancient fort had been occupied by the Thalmor a few hours walk from Solitude.

 

"Sir, the Empire is too weak right now to start another war with the Thalmor," the Dragonborn spoke up. "The Civil War led to more losses than expected, on all sides." More souls for Alduin to devour, she reminded herself, that much harder for her to destroy. "If you alligned the College with the Empire, perhaps--"

 

She could've sword the Archmage rolled his eyes, but it could've just as easily been the enchantment glow playing with his bright red eyes, half hidden under the shadow of his cowl. "You both think like soldiers, scrambling for the next body to fall before you." The Archmage clasped his hands behind him and paced around the Hall. "I suppose it reflects accurately, except this is not an institution of war. It is a place of _learning._ I will _not_ have these ancient stones marred by such messy matters as politics and the supposed glory of war.

 

"Perhaps," he continued, inspecting a soul gem left on the well in the center of the Hall, "if you considered every option, instead of the ones that bring you closer to whatever end you believe to be necessary, you'd find a better alternative." Archmage Aren made eye contact with both of them in the long silence that followed. "In other words, since neither of you wants to think of it for yourself, I'm asking you to hire a forger."

 

"A _what?_ " The Dragonborn exclaimed. "That's illegal!" She had considered that the Archmage may be losing whatever touch he had once had before, but now she was sure of it. A forger? Not even considering where she could find one skilled enough to mimic the elegant Aldmeri script Ancano wrote in, knowingly hiring a forger could land one in jail for a year at least.

 

"I seem to recall you mentioning something about being brought to Skyrim in a prison cart," Archmage Aren replied. The Dragonborn shut her mouth and looked down.

 

Ulfric realized he never actually asked why she was being executed. Sure, Ralof had his theory that she was crossing the border, but Ulfric couldn't recall the transport stopping to grab anyone, except for that horse thief. She had been in the cart before they were put on, not that Ralof could've known; the boy was struck unconscious by an Imperial soldier during the ambush and missed the first hour or so of their trek.

 

"We can hire a forger, Archmage," Ulfric spoke up. The illegality of the action didn't really bother him; he'd used forgers before to gain an advantage in multiple battles. He wished something more direct could be done, however. "The issue is finding one willing and able." Ulfric had lost almost every single person in his intelligence ring during the closing weeks of the Civil War, including his best forgers.

 

The Dragonborn scowled. "I can't do it. We can't, Stormcloak and I. There is urgent business in Whiterun that absolutely _requires_ our presence." She was _so close_ to ending this, once and for all. To getting back to her life. She shouldn't have to put the fate of the world on hold just because Stormcloak wanted to deal with his all his problems with a shout and a sword. _Idiot._ Even as she said it, she knew she--they--would be stuck hiring the forger, since it was Stormcloak who wanted to go around killing Thalmor and getting them into this mess.

 

Ulfric raised his eyebrows. What could _possibly_ be waiting for him in Whiterun, other than a smug Balgruuf and enough deer to feed all of Tamriel. Besides, hiring a forger and keeping the Thalmor's death secret may be best in the long run. The forger could feed false information to the Dominion, and receive intelligence for them to use.

 

But the Dragonborn seemed dead-set on refusing. She had planted her feet to the ground and crossed her arms, staring at the Archmage, who was looking rather lazily back at her as if she didn't have a glare that betrayed the Dragon's soul burning within her. "It would be wise," he said, aware of how her gaze shifted to stare him down. "I've created a valuable opportunity to collect information and deceive the Thalmor. I do not know why you want to go to Whiterun, but we can't ignore this. It could be the first step to ending the Aldmeri Dominion."

 

"And Whiterun will be the last step to ending Alduin," the Dragonborn retorted. "There is a _prophecy_ to fulfill, and this may have slipped past your thick head, but _I_ am responsible for saving Tamriel!" How blind could Stormcloak be? _He_ was the one that left Skyrim kingless and finished the prophecy, _he_ was the one that starting that dammed civil war, stalling her for _months_ and giving Alduin a steady stream of dead to eat. "How long until Alduin devours the world?"

 

"Suppose you save Tamriel, suppose Alduin lies dead," Ulfric countered, "and suppose you plunge the entire continent into yet another Great War because you think a prophecy that has waited thousands of years can't wait another week!" How short-sighted could the Dragonborn be? Nearly every single second she seemed to radiate self-righteousness, and now she couldn't even be bothered to think of the people she claimed to protect? Another war would be disastrous for Skyrim, and this was just the type of incident the Dominion could use to start one. "You certainly just had all Winter to fight in a war, why are you pressed for time all of a sudden?"

 

The Dragonborn opened her mouth to respond, and instead took a deep breath. She didn't have to justify herself to him; he was bound to her by the old laws, by his honor, if he had any of that left. But, as much as she hated to admit it to herself, Stormcloak had a point. Alduin had waited this long to devour the world; he would likely wait another week while she sent a forger to the College. "We…will get you a forger, Archmage.

 

Archmage Aren smiled gently. "If I find Thalmor Agents swarming my College, Nariilu, you can consider yourself expelled." He put down the soul gem and smoothly strode towards the door. "As quickly as you can, if you don't mind. The Thalmor are not a patient bunch."

 

He left with little to-do. The Dragonborn noticed her fists had frosted, either due to her anger of the time delay or admitting that Stormcloak was right, she wasn't sure.


	10. Chapter 10

Nariilu took a few more deep breaths and defrosted her hands. "Stormcloak," she said, not turning to look at him. "You can stay in Ancano's bedchamber. I don't care what you do, as long as you don't leave that room or damage anything. And, by Oblivion, if I so much as hear you speak, I don't even know what I'll do." She set to work hanging her robes back in the wardrobe with much more force and noise than was necessary. Archmage Aren's spell had gotten the blood out of the soiled robes still strewn on the floor, and she moved to pick them up.

 

She was able to spy into Ancano's bedchamber, seeing Stormcloak already rifling through Ancano's things. Good, now she didn't have to do it for herself, she thought. In a few hours she'd ask him about what he'd found, after she'd given herself time to stew. Stripping out of her ruined armor, Nariilu put on a set of College robes and pulled a cloak over her shoulders. The chest plate couldn't be saved; she'd try to salvage the metal in it later. Malachite and moonstone weren't cheap or easy to get a hold of, so she had to save what she could to avoid weeks of going with weaker armor.

 

It didn't take a scholar to figure out that Stormcloak had gone through her things, seeing as how they were partially strewn across her bed. Nariilu wondered if he had found what he was looking for, and righted her things and put them away in various drawers and pouches about her bedchamber. She went to J'zargo's bedchamber and grabbed a bit of fruit, cheese, and nearly stale bread; he still owed her from all his meals she bought when they had traveled together a few months ago.

 

Nariilu hesitated before tossing an apple and a chunk of the bread to Stormcloak. It landed on the bed; the apple bounced off and hit the floor. Stormcloak turned towards the food at the noise, then briefly made eye contact with the Dragonborn, who preoccupied herself with a bite of her own apple. Ulfric thought the bread was wonderfully tasteless; it went well with the signs of Thalmor in the room: a banner with the symbol of the Aldmeri Dominion, a set of gloves neatly laid on the desk.

 

Ulfric made short work of reading Ancano's notes, mostly because he couldn't read any of it. It was either in Aldmeris, perhaps coded, and after staring at it for a few minutes Ulfric couldn't find any sort of pattern to begin to understand it. His other items were equally useful; Ancano had almost no personal items outside of a few extra sets of robes and soul gems. He leaned back in the stiff desk chair, hearing the wood groan with the movement.

 

"Anything interesting?" Ulfric looked up to see the Dragonborn leaning against the central well. "I've grown bored of being angry, and I'm looking for something else to waste my time on."

 

Ulfric was thoroughly unsurprised that the Dragonborn's mood had managed to change so quickly. "I don't know; I can't read any of it," he said, gesturing to the books, scrolls, and loose pages he had strewn on the desk. "It's in Aldmeris."

 

The Dragonborn walked in and grabbed a few sheets of paper. Of course it is, she thought as her eyes scanned the runes. "And now we have to find a forger who understands Aldmeris. Have anyone in mind?"

 

"None that your army didn't kill," Ulfric replied.

 

The Dragonborn hummed. "I can't believe that the Archmage is willing to hire a forger. I knew he was laid back, but to be this unconcerned with a death inside the walls and willing to go around the law to cover it up," she said. "Granted, Ancano deserved to die. A proper thanks is in order, once we figure out someone to write Ancano's damned letters for him." She threw the parchment back on the desk. "I'd bring in an Imperial forger if Tullius wasn't ready to demote me. Besides, it would be easier to simply learn Aldmeris myself than to deal with the forms required." The Dragonborn kicked the desk. "That just leaves the Thieves Guild."

 

Ulfric couldn't help but feel a little proud of himself for recognizing her wealth as ill-gotten. "Friends of yours?" Perhaps thievery is what earned her a place on the executioner's headstone.

 

The Dragonborn scowled at the desk. "I'm going to ignore that. They owe me a favor. I saved one of their members from a Thalmor interrogation. I didn't know he was a member until I saw him walking around Riften at night with a lockpick. Now, that's not too suspicious--"

 

Yes it is, Ulfric thought.

 

"--but then he offered to put in a good word for me with the Guild. If we leave Winterhold tomorrow, we should be able to make it to Riften the day after, and back in three more days, if the negotiations go well. That means that I can be in Whiterun next week." The Dragonborn idly ran her fingers along a few garnets on the desk and slipped them into her pocket, figuring Ancano wouldn't miss them.

 

"Why are you so eager to go to Whiterun?" Ulfric asked. He didn't believe that he would ever be so intent on visiting again. The last peaceful time he had visited was before the Moot; Balgruuf had expressed his lack of support for Ulfric's kingship and even called him impulsive, which Ulfric found quite ironic from the short-tempered man. And, of course, he sieged the city the last time he was in the hold. It wasn't in Balgruuf's nature to hold strong grudges, but some things were more unforgivable than others.

 

"I'm going to catch a dragon in Dragonsreach." She inspected a soul gem before placing it back on the desk and moving to look at the next one. "Then he's going to tell me where Alduin is."

 

Ulfric was speechless. Catching a dragon, of all things, was beyond ambitious and into insane. In Whiterun, a city of thatch roofs and ancient wood, a dragon would spell disaster. And to say it so casually, as if she was discussing the weather! Ulfric briefly considered if his siege would've been more effective had it happened during an attempt to trap a dragon, or if the dragon would have turned on his army as well.

 

"So, if everything stays on schedule, Alduin should be dead before Rain's Hand arrives."

 

"You've gone mad," Ulfric declared. "Catch a dragon like a rabbit? And I suppose I'm the bait!"

 

The Dragonborn chuckled. "The dragon we have in mind is Alduin's right hand. He'll want to bring me back to Alduin dead. You're going to keep that dragon subdued until we can trap it. You may be the only one who can, for a time." She turned and leaned against the desk, crossing her arms. "He could be anywhere in Tamriel, and I'm going to Shout loud enough to summon him from Akavir."

 

"And you believe this will work?" Ulfric asked. The Dragonborn nodded. "Jarl Balgruuf will be overjoyed with your plan, I'm certain."

 

"You jest," the Dragonborn replied, "but the Jarl agreed to it in Sun's Dusk."

 

Ulfric blinked. Ulfric had never known Balgruuf to put his hold in danger; the safety of his citizens had always been his highest priority. It had kept him aggravatingly neutral for most of the Civil War, until Ulfric had all but marched through Whiterun's gates.

 

Your Thu'um will keep the dragon occupied while I catch my breath," the Dragonborn continued. "We must keep the dragon away from the actual city. Ward spells can only protect so much of Whiterun."

 

"You'll see the hold burn."

 

"I'll see Tamriel free of any winged beasts. Dragons seek me out without me summoning them enough. It shouldn't stray far from Dragonsreach." The Dragonborn frowned. "I'm taking every precaution to avoid unnecessary risk to the hold's citizens. We've already made a plan for each possible outcome."

 

"Who is 'we'?" Ulfric asked. He'd learned through experience that knowing exactly who had laid the plans altered how well they would go. Balgruuf, though an excellent shield-brother to stand beside in battle, was not a strategist he would want to trust his life to.

 

"Unimportant," the Dragonborn responded. She stood up straight and moved to the arched entrance of the room.

 

"I'd argue that it is important," Ulfric countered. "Balgruuf is an impatient man on his best days. He is no tactician."

 

The Dragonborn stopped on her way out of the room and turned back to face him. "The Jarl's housecarl and I were responsible for most of the planning. The captain of the Whiterun Guard, the court wizard, and my own housecarl also contributed. It was the mage's idea to surround the city in ward spells."

 

"You'd trust ward spells to stop a dragon?" Ulfric stood and walked over to her. He felt a cold weight settle in his stomach thinking of all the ways a dragon in Whiterun could go wrong.

 

"Without hesitation." The Dragonborn met his eyes and Ulfric saw the barest hint of a smirk flash across her face.


	11. Chapter 11

J'zargo heard the Shout, of course. So did everyone in Tolfdir's lecture. His lectures had been more boring than usual since the Eye had been brought back, and it seemed the mage had little patience for anything that wasn't giant, blue, glowing, and floating. It pissed J'zargo off; Tolfdir's lectures had gone from halfway interesting on occasion, to rushed summaries before waving them off to practice wards or magelights or some other basic skill J'zargo had mastered long before stepping foot in Skyrim.

The floor shook, and J'zargo rolled his eyes as Onmund nearly lost his footing. "Oh, is she back?" Brelyna asked aloud. It would've been an obvious statement, but J'zargo drew back his ears slightly. It could've just been the fact that he hadn't traveled with her in months, and therefore not heard her Shout in as long, but he didn't recognize that as her Voice.

"Focus, focus!" Tolfdir called, not looking away from the Eye. "You don't want to end up with impure metal!" J'zargo glanced back down at his lump of iron ore. The edges glinted a light silver. Brelyna's ore gleamed gold and Onmund's silver ore looked to still have flecks of iron. Brelyna showed her ore to Tolfdir, who inspected it briefly, turning it over once, twice, before handing it back to her and turning back to the Eye.

"Want me to do it for you?" Brelyna said out of the side of her mouth as she passed J'zargo on the way to the Arcanaeum stairs.

"Shut up," J'zargo hissed. She snickered and left.

~~~

General Tullius frowned as he listened to Brunwulf Free-Winter's speech. The new Jarl had insisted on it, despite the whispered turmoil still flowing freely through Windhelm threatening to burst at any second. It had taken all that Tullius had to keep the man from giving his damned speech seconds after Stormcloak's surrender.

"We must stand together, now more than ever! Yes, these are difficult times, yes, we may disagree, but we must not falter!" Free-Winter continued.

Tullius found it a waste of time, really. His men had to be stationed at key locations to keep Free-Winter safe from any threats, and Windhelm seemed to be built just to give any sort of would-be assassin an excellent place to hide in the shadows or perch on a rooftop. No wonder there had been a murderer running loose not long ago.

"I will do my best, citizens of Windhelm, of Skyrim, to serve you and lead us through these troubled times." Over half the City was squeezed into the Palace's courtyard, with more glancing over the newly made holes in the ancient courtyard walls. Tullius stopped listening as he stood at rest slightly behind Free-Winter. He had other things on his mind.

Like how he was going to court-martial the Dragonborn just as soon as he got back to Solitude. Negotiating for the release of the man behind the rebellion, the most wanted man in Tamriel, a treasonous murdering war criminal, was reason enough to him. That bitch of a Legate had somehow snuck Stormcloak through negotiations and placed him right at her side for whatever agenda she had.

Stormcloak should've died during the battle. Soon after, if not that, and on his way to the Imperial City for a good old-fashioned execution otherwise. Martyr was better than figurehead in Tullius' mind. People can rally around a corpse, but a corpse can't rally anyone, and damn if Stormcloak wasn't prodigal at rallying armies behind him. It seemed Stormcloak had a certain talent of escaping death.

Free-Winter wrapped up his speech, and, unlike any politician with sense in an unstable time and place, lingered to talk and clasp hands and offer condolences with the citizens. Tullius gestured to Legate Rikke, who walked up and whispered something in the Jarl's ear. The Jarl frowned and apologized to the crowd of people he hadn't gotten to speak with--Tullius realized with no small annoyance that he was planning on speaking with every single person in the Hold individually--and headed back inside the Palace of Kings. Tullius followed, along with the security detail he had assigned to protect Free-Winter.

Tullius returned to the war room, where he had spent the last day coordinating the Imperial hold on eastern Skyrim, no small task for a region that had more than enough small townships for its size and jagged mountains making it easy for rebels to hide or ambush any passing soldiers. Quaestor Casilia sat hunched near the back of the war room next to two stacks of parchment. She had been put in charge of writing the war reports that would be sent across the Empire. The finished letters were folded almost nicely enough to be called neat, waiting for Tullius to stamp them with his official seal.

He bit his cheek, grabbing the pile of finished letters and moving to the large map table. He studied it absentmindedly while sealing the letters. A few troops had been sent to the Stormcloak camp just north of the Eastmarch border to secure the rebels and set up their own outpost to catch any fleeing Stormcloaks looking for sanctuary.

Legate Rikke walked into the war room, stopping to lean against the map table with one hand. "We've established an Imperial presence in Mixwater Mill. No resistance. Jarl Blackbriar in Riften should be sending troops to secure the south of Eastmarch as soon as she receives word of our victory." She pointed out the routes the troops would take.

"Good, good," Tullius muttered, pressing his stamp down into a pool of hot wax.

"The celebrations in the Grey Quarter are continuing, still not violent. Jarl Free-Winter wishes to participate."

"The last thing I need is a drunk Jarl making a fool of himself in front of the entire city. Increase his entourage; don't let him out of the Palace."

"Yes, sir. And Galmar Stone-Fist has requested to speak with you."

Tullius paused briefly. "We don't grant the requests of war criminals."

"Sir, he refuses to speak to anyone but you."

"What could he possibly tell me? The Stormcloak presence might as well be gone across Skyrim. The Reunification is proceeding on schedule, without any Rebel interference. Any intelligence he has is useless to us." Tullius pressed his stamp on the last letter. "I'll speak to him before his execution. What about the other rebels?"

"They still refuse to swear loyalty to the Empire."

Tullius inspected the finished stack of sealed letters and glanced back over to Quaestor Casilia's pile of blank pages. "Kill them, then. In front of Stone-Fist, and leave the bodies in his cell until they swell. It might take a while, in this chill." He handed Legate Rikke the letters. "And deliver this to whoever's in charge of the couriers, Legate. Dismissed."

~~~

J'zargo preferred to study in his bedchamber. Lounging on his bed with a spell book was far more comfortable than sitting in the hard Arcanaeum seats and Urag staring at him as if he was going to make off with the entire library. Besides, he could use a nap after turning iron to silver to gold.

He padded into the Hall of Attainment almost silently, save for the creaking of the heavy door. Nariilu was standing at the entrance to the Thalmor's chamber, for whatever reason. Probably working herself up over the way his quill scratched against the parchment or something else inconsequential. She turned at the noise, and her face lit up when she saw him, not that J'zargo was paying attention.

"Later," she said to the Thalmor. Her tone was much less murderous than it usually was when talking to the Thalmor. Nariilu walked over to J'zargo, clasping his hand in greeting. "I trust it's been boring?"

"Dreadful," J'zargo replied, leading them both to his bedchamber. He set his bag down too fast; the gold ore inside thudded hard against his desk. "Nothing but the Eye. Still blue, still boring. A new apprentice, today."

"Oh?" Nariilu smiled. "And you've already given whoever it is a dangerous scroll, I assume." She chuckled.

"You survived, my friend. J'zargo has worked on them, and they should no longer explode. Hopefully."

"You'll end up expelled before Midyear."

J'zargo smirked. "If you do not Shout down the College first. You almost knocked over the Nord boy! What were you Shouting for, my friend? I have not heard the roar of a dragon in a month of moons."

The smile on Nariilu's face faded. "A very,  _very_  long story, J'zargo. But that's a tale for later, when I have enough time and enough wine to tell it. I'll be leaving in the morning."

"For Whiterun?" J'zargo's tail flicked rapidly. "Is it time?"

"No, no, not quite yet. Within a few days. I have to stop in Riften first." Nariilu held up a hand when J'zargo's mouth opened. "The same long story." She sank into his desk chair. "It has been nothing but long stories since I left. Please, for my own sake, tell me of the daily monotony here."

~

Ulfric half-listened to J'zargo's gossip, putting actions with names and thinking up motivations behind actions. He got the sense that the Khajiit didn't care for the mages much and cared for the students even less. Ulfric also figured that each anecdote was told with exaggeration that was by no means small.

He let their conversation fade into a background hum as he flipped through Ancano's journal. The unfamiliar letters blurred together quickly; he let his mind wander freely. The road to Riften was one of the calmer areas of Skyrim, if one managed to avoid the thieves that patrolled for merchants and nobles without guard.

Ulfric had made the trip from Windhelm to Riften often; the road was short, the weather was much more pleasant, and trade was simple and abundant between the two Holds. Trade was so abundant that Maven Blackbriar had sent a note with Jarl Law-Giver after the Imperial takeover of Riften that didn't even bother to disguise her intentions to completely ignore the Empire's sanctions on Windhelm and continue trade as normal.

But the Thieves Guild was another story. Anybody with sense in Skyrim knew that they based themselves out of Riften, but Ulfric had never gotten the impression that Jarl Law-Giver was particularly concerned with the Guild. On the few occasions that he outright asked her about the state of organized crime in the city, she would shrug and wave her hand, at best. Sometimes he wondered if the Jarl was in an alliance with the Guild, but seeing as she was in charge of her own city as he was of his, Ulfric had no jurisdiction to confront her about his suspicions outside of hypotheticals, which Jarl Law-Giver always denied with a laugh and a firm assertion that she was the only authority in the Rift.

The new Jarl, Maven Blackbriar, was not someone Ulfric had gone unaware of. The woman practically controlled the mead trade in Skyrim, and she was good friends with Jarl Law-Giver; Maven had often been present at meetings between the two Jarls, though she rarely spoke at them, save when economics were discussed. She was a brilliant businesswoman, one had to be to obtain her level of success.

"Stormcloak."

Ulfric jolted up, taking a second to come to his senses. He rubbed at his sore cheek, realizing he had fallen asleep on the desk. The Dragonborn placed a bundle of cloth and a bottle of ale in front of him.

"Salted venison and bread," she said. "Make it last, but there's more for when we stop at dusk. I hope you slept well; we've got a long day ahead of us."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated :D


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